


Concentrating Only On Breathing

by thebookofnights



Series: Partially Stars [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, POV Carlos (Welcome to Night Vale), Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:20:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebookofnights/pseuds/thebookofnights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks in Night Vale — even after the battle with the living trash in the bins outside the lab, encounters with creepy hooded figures, and other daily manifestations of the paranormal — are still nowhere near enough to adequately prepare Carlos for the sudden realization that it's up to him to save the entire town.</p><p>And the dreams are getting worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Concentrating Only On Breathing

_Rain coming down in sheets._

_A fury of white desert rain._

_Thunder._

_He’s standing beside what’s left of a sidewalk, buried in scrubgrass and sodden dirt. Nearby, the shattered glass and metal remnants of something around him that he thinks might have once been a bus shelter. He’s been waiting a long time. A very long time._

_He can’t move — something prevents him. After a moment of slowed, rusty cogitation, he realizes that this must be terror._

_A vast charnel altar on the sand dunes, an atoll of broken bodies, stretching away endlessly in every direction he looks. In the desert you can see forever. In the desert you can see as far as the curvature of the earth. The bodies are all those of dead animals. Lifeless birds, their wings outspread, seem to mock him as he stands transfixed. In the distance, high, shrill laughter._

_The sky is a massive eye, rolling to fix him with a dread gaze. He can hear the Voice describing it minutely, down to the exact colors that flicker in its kaleidoscopic iris, but the names of the colors fade from his mind when he grasps after recall. Maybe they have no names._

_A forked tongue of lightning lances down through the gelid air, charring bone and flesh. Flames leap up. Thunder. The laughter scales up into maniac weeping. He hears his name, drawn out and repeated, amidst the sobs, and that breaks his paralysis. He runs._

_The sky howls with outraged pride, reaching after him with skeletal electric fingers. He can taste iron. Feel the charge in the air. He hits the ground, throwing up a spray of wet sand. Desperately tries to roll away from the strike, knowing it’s too late —_

 

— comes up out of the dream, a drowning man seizing a rope at the very last second.

Gasps for breath, waves of an internal static swamping his vision, one hand convulsively clamping down on the nearest solid object. This turns out to be the rust-gnawed metal bar on the side of the foldout sofa bed, which has a broken edge only slightly less sharp than the one on his efficient folding pocket knife. It promptly draws blood.

Cursing, Carlos drops back onto the pillow and lies still for a moment, heartbeat rattling his eardrums. Breathes in and out twice, slowly. Then, impatient with his own fright, rolls to his feet. Scrabbles for his watch left-handed. It’s 9:43. He curses again. The other members of his research team should be arriving in less than fifteen minutes, and he has no idea where his glasses are.

“Pathetic bastard,” he says, licking his wounded fingers and glancing around at the little area he’s screened off from the main lab to sleep in. It’s all scrupulously clean and tidy, except for the rumpled sheets on the bed, but it’s barely motel-level accommodation. Most of the time it feels like home to him — certainly more so than his last apartment ever did — but right now, shaken by the aftermath of another searing nightmare, he’s conscious of a wish for more time and more luxury.

He shakes his head. Pads, barefoot, over to the mirrored basin of the nearest metal sink, and leans close to scrutinize his reflection. Hair: too long, curling rebelliously in the front almost past his chin. He runs rueful fingers through it, pushing it out of his face. Five o’clock shadow: damn near a ten o’clock shadow. At least his shaving kit, unlike his glasses, apparently, is findable. Eyes... haunted.

But that’s what he gets for falling asleep with the recording of the radio broadcast still playing.

 

He went the whole day yesterday without listening to _Welcome to Night Vale_ live.

Didn’t even furtively switch it on in his car on the way out to Radon Canyon, where he spent several hours in a gas mask and a hazmat suit, putting down survey markers and thoroughly confusing several day-trippers from Old Town, who were having a picnic at the top of a small bluff overlooking the Canyon’s massive edge. (His attempts to explain to them why they should immediately retreat from the area to seek medical attention had only resulted in laughter and a neighborly invitation to take off the mask and join them for lemonade. Not, after a hard week, feeling equal to the task of kidnapping seven adults and three children and hauling them all off bodily to the hospital, he had reluctantly left them to their Thursday afternoon festivities.)

Why he’d been stupid enough to assume that the dreams would cease to trouble him once he arrived here, at their source, he doesn’t know... and he suspects strongly that listening to the broadcast, live or recorded — to the Voice that has always narrated those dreams — is amplifying the effect somehow.

But one day is the most he can manage.

It’s worse than the cigarette cravings, worse than the cognitive dissonance caused by the unceremonious overthrow of so many accepted scientific theories. Never mind the frequently disturbing content of the broadcasts, or his obdurate determination not to allow the Voice any more sway over his mind than he can prevent. Never mind that the Voice’s sinister but sweet-natured, enigmatic but handsome, eerie but fucking _incorrigible_ owner appears to have fallen in love with him. He’s hooked.

Whatever else Cecil is or isn’t, he’s certainly a true citizen of Night Vale. Either he has no idea that an association with someone under active surveillance by as-yet-unknown forces might be dangerous to him, or he has a sublime disregard for his own safety that’s positively infuriating. He says Carlos’s name with a rapt note that makes him sound like a schoolboy with a crush. _Carlos the scientist... perfect Carlos... beautiful Carlos._

It’s embarrassing. It’s inappropriate. It’s certainly not conducive to a professional state of mind.

It’s disastrously, hopelessly endearing.

Carlos doesn’t find it logically possible to stay in denial of his own response to it, especially by this time. Hearing Cecil say his name never fails to halt him in his tracks. Presumptuously deprive him of breath. Make him want to stop Cecil’s mouth, by whatever means occurs to him. This last, perilous thought has more than once caused him to irritably fling aside whatever he’s working on to mute his iPad — a feat that has become steadily more difficult to accomplish since the iPad grew six retractable crablike legs and enough self-awareness to mischievously ignore programmed voice commands.

He can only be grateful that Eli Hirsch, the intern, is the only one of his colleagues who knows he’s recording the broadcasts to begin with, and that none of them have ever interrupted him after he’s sent them home for the night.

He hasn’t seen Cecil in person since the day of his arrival, but the knowledge that Cecil’s presence is just the turn of a dial away is a unique torment: sometimes horrifying, sometimes incalculably comforting. He falls asleep to the characteristic sign-off — _good night, Night Vale_ — and wakes again to whisper _good night_ back.

And when he does suffer nightmares, when he wakes up disoriented and disarmed, with the image of some stark vision still imprinted on his retinas, he doesn’t feel alone anymore.

Captor, oracle, conduit, mastermind — he doesn’t know what Cecil _is,_ and he’s beginning to care less and less. What does seem to matter is that it’s Cecil’s voice that takes him down into the darkness and Cecil’s voice that brings him back up again.

No, he doesn’t feel alone. That, he thinks, finally locating his glasses on the table, underneath this morning’s edition of the _Daily Journal,_ is exactly the problem.

He’s getting _used_ to it. 

 

Carlos has had to temporarily set aside the mystery of exactly how the _Daily Journal_ is successfully being delivered, with the Night Vale Post Office sealed by the City Council.

It certainly doesn’t arrive through the mailbox. It just appears — with all the sudden mystery that the word implies, he reflects with irritation — at approximately 6:30 a.m, and never when anyone is actually looking.

Observation by any number of people doesn’t seem to make a difference. The entire research team can all be standing around the table, staring at the empty space in unison, and somehow it will be there in between their blinks.

Their attempt to record events in the lab during the early hours of the morning only resulted in blank security footage and an unusually blurred copy of the newspaper, which bled a strange, black, raspberry-scented fluid all over everything it came into contact with. Phil Kirk’s biochemical analysis of this last raised more questions than it answered. The only thing he could tell Carlos for certain was that it wasn’t ink. “Good job it isn’t poisonous,” was Eli’s only comment, to which Phil, characteristically irascible, retorted, “Good job you didn’t taste it.”

In short, Carlos definitely should have known better than to leave anything important on that end of the table. He must have been up later than he realized.

Today’s front page story appears to be entirely concerned with the City Council’s categorical denial of the existence of angels. He’s still working his way through the different categories when the doorbell rings.

Somewhat startled, he hastily pulls on a clean shirt and goes to answer the door, shooting a mistrustful look at the coffee pot — which is warming up so slowly that he suspects it might be broken (or perhaps also on the verge of developing a limited machine sentience) — and a curious one at his watch. 10:02. The others should be here by now, and the fact that they’re not is a little worrying, but if this interruption proves to be unpleasant, it’ll be far easier to deal with it on his own.

At least he can be sure that it isn’t the Sheriff’s Secret Police. They would just have broken down the door.

He smiles to himself, carefully entering his code into Eli’s temperamental security system, but suppresses it as he pulls the door open. Readies, instead, an expression of glacially polite inquiry, perfected by years of dealing with hostile department heads and racist student body members. Observes, with unholy amusement, that it thoroughly daunts his unexpected visitor: a tall man with brown sideburns and a Night Vale Mountain Lions jersey, whose face is vaguely familiar.

“Oh,” the man stammers, “you — you must be in the middle of breakfast. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize — I’ll come back —”

“No,” Carlos says, recognizing him. “No, hold on a moment. I remember you. It’s... Carlsberg, isn’t it? You were at the town meeting, a few weeks ago.”

“Yeah. I — I came to apologize about that, actually. I was in the neighborhood, I mean, I was dropping my daughter off at school, and you’re on my way home, so I thought — but I don’t want to interrupt you.”

“You’re not interrupting anything; I... overslept. The others aren’t here yet.” He glances over the other man’s shoulder to see a nondescript tan Corolla parked nearby, a large green-eyed dog lolling a forked tongue out the open driver’s side window. “You’d better bring that dog inside. You can’t leave him out here in this heat.”

“No, of course not. I didn’t think — I mean, I expected you to slam the door in my face. I was a jerk to you at the meeting.”

“Yes,” mildly, but with a smile leaking out the corner of his mouth. “You were. Come on in. I can offer you coffee, if you don’t mind waiting.”

The lab echoes to the firm tap of hiking boots and the click of the dog’s toenails as Carlos leads them inside, letting the door swing closed after them. The dog is in the middle of investigating what the pockets of Carlos’s labcoat, thrown over the back of a chair, might contain, when the iPad wakes up and scuttles out from its customary nest underneath the chair, causing a short pandemonium.

“Quiet, Binky!” The dog, having let loose a volley of offended barks, breaks off to look reproachfully at his owner. “We’re guests, damn it. Sorry, Carlos.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Carlos hunts through the glassware cabinet for an extra coffee mug. “I nearly cracked my head open on the edge of the table when it first did that, myself. Uh... unusual name for such a big dog.”

“Michaela named him, when she was only three,” with an expressive grimace. “You know how it is. But he’s a mixed breed, as I’m sure you can tell. We think he might be part Cerberus collie. Anyway, it isn’t like he came with a pedigree and an instruction manual. And by now, he won’t answer to anything else. You have kids?”

“No.”

“Good. I mean,” at Carlos’s surprised glance, “Night Vale is a dangerous place. Even when I thought you were in on it, I didn’t want to imagine you might have a family who’d miss you if... something happened.”

Carlos considers him for a moment in silence. Holds out the mug. “I think you’d better tell me what you really came here to tell me, Carlsberg.”

“Oh, well — please, call me Steve. Jesus, what happened to your hand? Lab accident?”

“You could say that. It’s not deep. What exactly is it you thought I was... in on?”

Steve Carlsberg fiddles with the empty mug. “Well. Anywhere else, I’d be a conspiracy theorist for suspecting everyone of being in league with the shadow government. Here... people expect it. The last group of scientists who came here... I think now they were corporate, but I don’t know for sure. I was maybe eight or nine. They pioneered some of the newer reeducation techniques the Council uses now. And they all disappeared, under suspicious circumstances. Ask anyone about that, they won’t even remember it.” He checks, glancing around, and swallows hard. “I mean, I still don’t know who’s funding you — I know it can’t be just that university in Massachusetts — but I think your _project’s_ legit.”

“Thank you,” ironically.

“Yes, well, I was wrong to accuse you. But... you can’t have any idea of what I’m risking, even talking to you about this.”

Carlos has no real desire to confide any part of the bargains he’s made, financial or otherwise, to a stranger. He turns from contemplation of the one small section of the fridge not devoted to samples and lab supplies to say, instead, “I’d offer you milk and sugar, but I don’t have either of those things. I didn’t have time for shopping last night. I hope you don’t object to black coffee.”

Taken aback at the non sequitur, “No.”

“Well, help yourself, then,” and Carlos sits down with his own mug, comforted by the warmth soaking through the ceramic, soothing his throbbing fingers.

Steve obeys, still looking a little stunned. The dog Binky, interpreting Carlos’s seated position as an invitation to ask for a share of breakfast, trots over and applies an enthusiastic nudge to his elbow. Receiving no response, he sinks to the floor with an expression of woeful starvation, thumping the bare tile with both tails.

Setting the coffee pot down, Steve says, “You _know_ you’re... in danger... right?”

Carlos laughs, an abrupt, rather grim sound. “Oh, I know.”

“You wouldn’t listen to me, if I told you to run? Get out of town while you still can?”

“It’s too late for that,” shortly.

Steve takes a cautious sip of his coffee. Carlos, watching him, can tell he’s concerned. Relents. More gently, “I don’t understand. All right, so you decided I was, uh, legit, and you came here hoping to warn me... but if you understand the danger, why haven’t _you_ left?”

A tiny headshake. “I can’t. No one leaves Night Vale. Not really. Not people who were born here. And my daughter... She might carry a gun to school like every other kid, but I can’t let her see them take me away. I’m all she’s got.”

Carlos puts up a hand, sympathetic pain twisting through him at the look in Steve’s eyes. “God. Forgive me. I didn’t realize.”

“No,” in a raw voice. “How could you? You’re... not from here.” He blinks away tears, takes a too-large gulp of coffee to cover them. The dog, rolling worried eyes toward him, utters a small whine. After a moment, in a steadier tone, he continues, “I can’t stay long. I know they think I’m just a crackpot, some weirdo who actually believes in the moon —”

“There are many people here who don’t, I take it?” Carlos shakes his head at himself. “I can’t believe I missed that for almost two weeks.”

“It’s ridiculous, I know. Sometimes I get fired up and send emails to the newspaper, or the radio station, but all they do is laugh at me. I used to know Cecil Palmer when he was just a theater-obsessed geek at school, hiding pens in his sleeves, and now he’s the closest thing to a real activist Night Vale has, and he never does anything except mouth the Council’s lies.”

Carlos narrows his eyes. “That’s speaking freely,” he says, aware of the edge surfacing in his voice, but unwilling, for Cecil’s sake, to bury it entirely. “Aren’t you afraid of reeducation?”

 _“Yes,_ but, like I’m telling you, they think I’m harmless... for now. And even with that, I don’t want to stay here too long, put us both under suspicion. Listen, Cecil isn’t... bothering you, is he?”

Carlos puts down his coffee. Shrugs. Hopes he sounds casual. “Haven’t seen him since the day I got here. Why? Does he dislike moon apologists?”

“I don’t know, but that isn’t what I —” Steve is interrupted when the doorbell rings again, this time much more loudly. Binky, who has apparently occupied the lab floor for long enough to decide that it’s his territory, bounces up with a growl rising in his throat.

As if in answer, the doorbell rings a third time. At Steve’s nervous frown, Carlos holds up a finger reassuringly — _wait_ — and goes to reenter his security code, trailed by the dog. Opens the door just enough that whoever is outside will have no view of the lab.

 

His icy _May I help you?_ look makes no impression whatsoever on his second visitor of the morning.

Instead of maintaining it, he sighs. Pulls out the last of his carefully hoarded cigarettes. Props himself against the doorframe and offers the Building and Code inspector a level stare.

“Good morning, Bale. You’re a bit early today. It’s... let’s see... 10:31. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me; I don’t have any coffee left.”

“I do not want coffee,” Mr. Jeremiah Bale declares, brandishing his clipboard. Balked of his intention to stride dramatically into the lab, he’s working himself up into a state of righteous indignation. “I want you, as the official renter of this building, to turn in the proper paperwork, so I don’t have to march out here on foot every weekday to demand it.”

“You could always drive,” Carlos murmurs.

“This is not a matter for levity, as you should be aware. Within Night Vale city limits, every leased or rented building must have the correct blood sacrifices performed in triplicate not later than ten days from —”

The rest of this increasingly involved sentence is lost in a cacophony of barks from Binky, who has taken advantage of Carlos’s inattention to eel out between his leg and the door. At Bale’s outraged stare, Carlos gives up any pretense of seriousness. Shoulders shaking, he puts the heel of his hand against his forehead, leaning on the doorframe.

“Yes, go ahead, laugh,” snaps Bale, as soon as he can make himself audible again. “I’ll have you turned out of here, you and all your fancy electrical equipment, you and all your... science-addled nonsense, unless you comply with the terms of the Building and Code Department! I need to see no fewer than three animals sacrificed on the premises before the sun goes down today, or I will have you evicted, sir! And that misbegotten dog would do very well for a start!”

Binky curls his lip, revealing a double row of very white fangs, the sight of which causes the inspector to hastily snatch away his accusing finger and back up several steps.

Carlos drops his hand, straightens. Dangerously soft, “Listen carefully, Bale: I do not kill animals without a very good reason. Your paperwork isn’t even an excuse.” He thumbs a lighter from his pocket, turns aside deliberately to kindle the tip of the cigarette. “I looked it up last night. City Council law states the landlord is the final arbiter in rental disputes, not Building and Code. Unless I hear otherwise from him, you can get off my property. I’ve had enough of you.”

Bale opens his mouth as if to argue, but at the dog’s threatful growl, shuts it again. Stalks down the length of the loading zone, seething in his business suit. Turns, at the very edge of the sidewalk, to yell, “Don’t be surprised if you come down with a case of roof boils! I’ve got a _very_ good lawyer!”

This draws Binky’s fire one last time, a single short bark, and Carlos smiles crookedly. “What the misbegotten dog said. Go on, fuck off.”

With a final, fulminating look, the inspector stomps away. Carlos stays where he is for a moment, savoring the first bite of the nicotine, wondering idly what exactly it is about the air of Night Vale that makes otherwise ordinary cigarette smoke glow dark red.

Not to mention how long it will be before he loses what sanity remains to him.

Convinced of a job well done, Binky settles down at his feet and pants happily up at him.

 

It’s 11:02 when his phone rings at last, and Steve Carlsberg’s Corolla is gone from in front of the lab.

Considering the implications of Steve’s visit — which mercifully ended without any further reference to Cecil or the radio station — has made Carlos uneasy, and he’s only halfway through setting up the equipment for his planned analysis of an ear of imaginary corn when he hears the phone go off from somewhere above him.

“Drop it. And not on anything sterile,” he says, holding out a hand.

There is a gibbering beep of complaint from the iPad, perched upside down on the ceiling, but it drops the phone onto the table next to him, still ringing. There are several holes in the phone’s protective case, the edges of which look slightly chewed. He hopes devoutly that the rogue tablet has not developed actual teeth. He’ll have to catch it later and check.

Eli appears to be in the middle of a muffled altercation when Carlos picks up. “No, dude, I’m telling you, we should’ve just taken the bus, it’s not that far of a — oh, thank goodness, finally. Hi, boss.”

“Any more fights on public transportation, Hirsch, and I’m confining you to the lab.”

Injured, “Boss, how can I help it if an old lady mistakes me for a housebreaker? I did try to tell her she wasn’t _in_ her house, but she wouldn’t listen to me. I could claim the injuries as work-related, you know. I’ve still got a bruise from the huge metal clasp on that purse.”

“Never mind that now. Where are you?”

“Phil and I are on our way to the farm. Mare and Dave went out there earlier to talk to John Peters — you know, the farmer? — about buying some corn, since the Green Market was such a bust. And _then_... well. You’ll never guess.”

Carlos smiles, but deadpans his three allowed responses. “Imaginary corn makes the people who eat it become imaginary. Phil finally won an argument with someone about the law of gravity. You got stop sign immunity for a month.”

“Three strikes and he’s _out!”_ Eli crows. “Carlos, you used to be so good at this. Night Vale’s putting you off your _game_ , man.”

“I got the one about the infestation in the trash bins.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t an _alien_ infestation in the trash bins. It was an infestation of _living_ trash. You gotta be specific to win this ticket.”

Carlos sighs. “Next time. How big an emergency is it?”

“I guess... a medium-sized emergency? Oh no, I can see it now, I’m gonna say that’s bigger than medium-sized. An ominously-growing-larger-sized emergency. Uh, can you bring the gas masks, just in case?”

 

The sign at the turnoff reads _Peters Farm: Fine Gourmet Peaches_ , in scrolling, fanciful gilt-edged letters. _AND IMAGINARY CORN_ is stenciled below, a plain block-white afterthought.

Carlos takes the rutted, unpaved lane at speed, slinging gravel from the tires of the Chevy on the turns, a heavy feeling in his throat. It’s like drifting rapidly into the center of a massively scaled set for a Hollywood horror movie. Rows of withered trees march out and away from the road, carefully pruned and propped up by stakes in spite of their drooping branches. Fairytale things, wispy as ghosts, they look like one moderate wind would blow them clear of the ground.

But there is no wind.

The sky between the fingers of the dying peach trees is blood-red and pulsating, a flickering carmine light shining through in rays to dazzle him as he grabs his messenger bag, throws the door open, runs.

Recognizing the three cars — Dave’s dilapidated Ford pickup, Marianne Smithson’s rented blue Astra, and the white Honda Accord belonging to Phil — parked side by side in the lee of the barn, he changes course for a footpath that leads in the direction of the western ridge. Hopes, as the glow above him changes, cycles, impossibly fast, from deep ruby to a bright irradiated green, that he’s running the right way.

That he isn’t too late.

11:34.

  

He’s too late.

There are eight people on the northwest side of the field of imaginary corn.

John Peters, a phone to his ear and his ubiquitous straw sunhat shading his eyes from the source of that unbelievable light. Two men wearing the kevlar uniforms of the Sheriff’s Secret Police, the visors of their helmets raised, _dic nihil, bibe ut obliviscere_  in gleaming thread on their insignia. Carlos’s own research team, grouped in a loose circle — Dave grim, Phil agitated, Marianne frightened, Eli giddy with terror or amazement or both. The poison light turns their faces pallid and unreal; even Dave, more dark-skinned than Carlos, seems to have a murky, subaqueous film over his features.

The eighth person is a stranger to him.

A stranger to everyone, now.

Stretched on the ground, fingers clutching his chest in rigor, eyes not so much open as unshuttered, their blown irises timelapsing from green to an incandescent orange as the source of the light changes again. The most unmistakably dead dead man Carlos has ever seen, and he still skids to his knees, heedless of the damage to the imaginary stalks and leaves he’s crashing through, even though he can feel them whisking insubstantially against his skin. Puts his bandaged fingers to the man’s neck before he can stop himself, in reflexive search for a long-fled pulse.

 _“Behold!”_ and Eli is almost laughing with excitement. “We couldn’t have planned a better field test for this thing! Look!”

Carlos looks up, to find the intern holding aloft one of their newly redesigned paranormal energy field readers like a lightning rod, and has to shake off something, some persistent subconscious memory, before he can register the meaning of the pattern on its illuminated screen.

“Did the auditory feedback module burn itself out, or have you turned it off?” he inquires, hearing the tremor in his own voice.

“Oh, I turned it off. I thought you all might like to keep your eardrums.”

“How thoughtful.”

“Will you be kind enough to explain to us, Mr. Peters, what all of this light and hullabaloo is about?” interrupts the taller of the Secret Policemen, in a long-suffering tone that makes it obvious this is a repeated question.

“I just got finished explaining it,” John Peters protests, looking up from his phonecall. “Weren’t you listening?”

“Of _course_ we were listening. We listen to everything. That’s not the point. We want an official statement from you; this is your property.”

“Not a thousand feet _up_ from here it isn’t. I only own the _ground_. That glowing cloud’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Well, if you didn’t summon it, where the hell did it come from?” demands the Secret Policeman, as the furnace tint above them cycles to a deep, cold blue.

 _“I_ don’t know, Officer Ben. And you really shouldn’t swear like that, we might be on air already. Sorry, Cecil. You know how he is,” turning back to the phone.

“Put that on speaker,” Officer Ben raps out. “Make our jobs easier.”

John Peters rolls his eyes, but he obeys, murmuring a few words of explanation into the receiver before holding the phone out. Carlos sits back on his heels, heart dropping hard, as if he’s just stepped into an elevator shaft. Braces himself for the impact.

It doesn’t, as usual, do any good.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” and there’s a smile in Cecil’s voice, God, that smile, half secretive and half playful, as if he already knows the answers to more questions than he plans to ask.

 _You are a perverted freak,_ Carlos chastises himself sternly. _What the hell is wrong with you? You’re sitting right next to a body, for fuck’s sake — the victim of some terrible accident, no less — and all you can think about is the shape his mouth makes when he smiles like that._

“Are you reporting on this here Glow Cloud, Cecil Palmer?”

“Why not? Am I ordered not to?”

“Not yet.”

“Good,” smoothly, the smile no doubt widening, and Carlos drops his head, pretending to be examining the ground near the body, trying to conceal his attentive tension as Cecil continues. “What do you see? The Cloud, it’s changing colors, right? What color is it now?”

“Blue,” John Peters says, just as Phil strikes in, “Violet,” and they look at each other with distaste.

“No, it’s really more of an indigo,” Officer Ben’s partner speaks up. “You know, like how we learned the rainbow in school? Blue, then indigo, then _super_ indigo, _then_ violet —”

“Are you saying my eyesight is defective?”

“Are _you_ arguing with the Law?”

“Perhaps it changes, from observer to observer?” suggests Cecil. “You might all be right.”

Without speaking, Carlos holds up a hand to stop Phil’s retort; the other scientist shuts his mouth grudgingly. Officer Ben says, “You can hear that noise it’s making, can’t you?”

Marianne and Phil both look around in a puzzled way, but Dave nods and puts a finger to his lips. The group falls into an abrupt silence, unbroken except for the soft, varied breath of eight people and the hollow, heavy lack of breath of a ninth.

After a moment Carlos does hear it. A desolate whistling. Like wind.

There is still no wind.

“You all hear that?” Officer Ben demands. The others nod.

“What is it?” Cecil asks. “I can’t pick it up through the phone.”

“Kind of whistling sound,” John Peters replies. “Low-pitched. Gets into your bones. We all hear it now... I think it means the Cloud’s getting closer.”

Cecil doesn’t immediately reply, and Carlos has one of his flash-quick mental images: the reporter’s fingers going still, those intent eyes darkening, focusing. Finally, Cecil says, “Is this an occasion for a warning? Or should I tell my listeners not to worry?”

“Tell them it’s probably nothing,” Officer Ben says. “And that _is_ an order.”

“Nothing?” Marianne breaks in. “What do you mean, _nothing?_ When this man’s been found dead here? It’s too much of a coincidence, even if there’s no proven correlation. We have to attribute his death to the presence of this — uh, this Glow Cloud, until it’s shown otherwise. You should warn people! At least get them to stay indoors, or something!”

“Listen, ma’am, be reasonable. If we had to shut down the entire town every time some mysterious event occurred to cause at least one death, we’d never have time to do _anything.”_

“Hmm, that is true,” Cecil agrees.

Marianne, unmoved by this example of Night Vale logic, fixes the Secret Policemen with a glare, green eyes rendered almost abyssal by the blue radiance of the Cloud. “Then what exactly _do_ you suggest we do about it?”

The officers exchange speculative glances. Then, “I know!” Officer Ben’s partner exclaims. “Run directly at it, shrieking and waving your arms, just to see what it does!”

“We are _not_ doing that.”

“Well, maybe someone will, and then we can observe the results! From a safe distance, of course. We’ll make it an official suggestion, how’s that, Cecil?”

“An official suggestion?” Cecil sounds dubious. “Oh — well, okay, I’ll mention it, Officer Jonas, but I don’t know if I’d go so far as to —”

“Look, if you don’t have anything helpful to add, will you stop wasting my minutes with this nonsense?” John Peters interrupts.

Both of the Secret Policemen stiffen, their faces changing, becoming impassive. “We can _requisition_ your minutes, Mr. Peters,” Officer Ben says in a tone of silky threat. “Your cell phone minutes. The minutes you spend sleeping. The minutes you spend _living._ You would never even know how many minutes you might have lost. Think about that,” and he turns away abruptly to leave, trailed by his partner.

The resulting awkward silence, during which the farmer sets his jaw angrily and Eli takes a nervous step closer to Carlos’s side, is finally broken by Cecil.

“Oh dear. John Peters,” dropping his interview manner to speak in a darker, more soothing tone, “please, excuse Officer Ben. You know he’s been having... _personal_ troubles in his life lately. I wouldn’t take anything he says — when he’s speaking off the record, I mean, of course — too seriously right now. Besides, no good ever comes of thinking about what you may or may not have lost. You might try thinking about what you may or may not have _found,_ instead. An abandoned penny on the sidewalk. An unknown something in your attic, hidden in a box that you have yet to open. Symptoms of a new and exciting disease. That one extra sock you always end up with when you take your laundry out of the dryer. Things like that. At least, I know that helps me, when I’m having a bad day. All right?”

“All right, Cecil,” John Peters manages.

“Good,” and the smile in Cecil’s voice this time is warm and unshadowed. Like hearing sunlight — and how strange, how heart-cracking that is, Carlos thinks, with the landscape around them submerged in unnatural color.

“Now, I have to go. It’s almost 12:30; I’ll be on air in a few minutes. But do call again if you observe any changes. I have a feeling that your Glow Cloud’s going to be my top story today.”

“Thanks, Cecil,” and John Peters actually smiles back, a small smile, but still the most forgiving expression Carlos has ever seen from him. Then the screen of the phone goes dark as the connection drops.

No one says anything for another full minute, but when Carlos stands, brushing dirt and the pesky imaginary corn husks from his jeans, they all look at him expectantly.

John Peters says, “Carlos... I knew you’d be here. You and your team — you’re going to _follow_ the Glow Cloud, aren’t you?”

Carlos thinks of clarifying the details of his half-formed plan, perhaps in technical terms calculated to put off the farmer’s obvious desire to help. Gives up. Nods, instead.

“Take me with you.”

 

The first problem is one that Carlos has a bad feeling may occur again in the future — they can’t figure out what to do with the unknown corpse.

Moving it would be easy, but they can’t agree on where to move it _to._ Calling the Secret Policemen back, even if they wanted to, would just increase their difficulties. Eli’s anti-surveillance black boxes — one of which he’s just pulled out and turned on — are at least seven different kinds of illegal under Night Vale’s peculiar city statutes, but by now all of the scientists have the instinct to lay down static, whether or not they fully believe in the existence of watchers.

By unspoken consensus, they leave their host in the dark about the box’s purpose. It isn’t hard. Night Vale citizens, as a group, seem to have only the most cursory understanding of scientific equipment.

“How do you think he died?” Marianne asks.

“I thought you people might be able to find out,” says John Peters. “Do an autopsy, like on _CSI?”_

“We’re scientists, not doctors,” Dave says. “Deductive reasoning’s really the best we can do.”

“So deduct, Sherlock.” Eli grins at him.

“Medical science is closer to Phil’s specialty than mine.”

“But it’s still pretty damn far,” Phil snorts. “Besides, we can’t just cut him open and start poking around. We’d need proper instruments and sterile conditions for that, for one thing; we can’t do it in a field.”

“And here I thought for a second that you were objecting for ethical reasons.” Dave makes a face at him.

“I _am_ objecting for ethical reasons. I do have enough scientific integrity to refuse to pretend I know how to properly conduct an inquest, thank you very much, Dr. Halland.”

“There’s no need to get quite so in-depth,” Carlos intervenes. “We can note some things by simple observation. There’s no blood, no obvious wounds. The position he’s in suggests to me that he fell here, perhaps, and then rolled over.”

“Unless someone carried him here, arranged him like that.” Marianne shudders, shakes her head. “But you don’t think he was murdered, boss?”

“No. I’m no expert, but — no, I don’t. It might have been a heart attack — the way his hand’s clutching his chest would support that theory, I imagine. And the body’s completely stiff, which means he’s been dead for at least three or four hours. When did you first see the Cloud, Peters?”

“About an hour ago. It — it was small, then. Or maybe just far away. Came down over the western ridge. I walked toward it from the house. Didn’t see the body until I nearly tripped on it. Would it really have been difficult for this Glow Cloud, or whoever was responsible, to leave it somewhere else?” he adds, aggrieved. “No more than fifty yards further north, and it wouldn’t even be on my property. Now I’m the one stuck filling out the Unscheduled Discovery of Corpse or Corpse-Like Object form for the City Council.”

“I can see how that would be annoying,” Carlos sympathizes, biting his lip to keep in the rebellious twitch of a smile.

 _“I_ have a question,” Eli says.

“What’s that, kid? If it’s about whether or not it’s morally defensible to go through a dead man’s pockets, I’ve got bad news for you.”

“Come on, Dave, get the stick out of your ass already. You can’t tell me you weren’t even curious,” irrepressibly. “No, my question’s much more relevant. Does our Glow Cloud up there fit the profile of a perp who’d steal a wallet? Because this guy’s got nothing on him but lint and the proverbial pocket change.”

Carlos narrows his eyes. “Are you certain, Eli?”

“As certain as I can be. Unless he carries all his stuff in some place no man was meant to know about, let alone store his car keys in.”

Marianne looks down into the open, unseeing eyes with pity. “So we have no idea who he is.”

“I hate to say it,” Carlos says, standing up, “but we don’t have the time to find out.” 

 

They meet up in the gravel driveway.

The landscape is now tarnished by a glow that Carlos perceives as a bitter, metallic silver, like rancid moonlight. The body has been left in its original position, covered by a blue plastic tarp, which Carlos carried back out to the field. John Peters, who ducked briefly into his house, has emerged again with a massive sheaf of papers, a stamp, and a large hunting rifle. Marianne is checking the settings on her handheld radio transceiver, frowning in concentration. Phil is just standing, his eyes fixed on the absence of sky. Dave and Eli are rifling through the equipment in the Astra’s trunk.

As Carlos approaches, they all straighten with that same look — eager, expectant, receptive. Waiting, in fact, for him to assume command. As if he were some sort of hero.

He’s surprised by the strength of his revulsion at this thought. For a moment that leaden feeling in his throat is back, and he swallows hard. Steadies himself. _Treat this like any other project,_ he tells himself. _You know how to give orders._

He walks over to the door of the Chevy, thinking, then turns. “All right. I want the four of you to go out in different directions. Track how far it’s spreading, keep taking readings and sending them in, at least every five minutes. I’ll try to stay in the center.”

“Excuse me for speaking my mind, boss, but that’s a really stupid plan,” objects Eli. “What if the Cloud expands too fast for us to follow?”

“Then stop at my survey markers. The Route 800 markers to the north and south, the beginning of the Red Mesa trail to the west, and the Radon Canyon cutoff on the Eastern Expressway. The safety of Night Vale is more my concern at this point than scientific curiosity.”

“What about your own safety?” Dave asks, skeptical.

“If the weather gets worse, you might notice a pattern before I do. In either event, I can raise the alarm faster. I think it’s headed for town.”

Phil is frowning, shaking his head. “We should all have been more careful.”

“When Mare and I got here, we didn’t know there was a glowing... _thing..._ in the sky,” protests Dave. “But if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, not yours.”

“Radiation levels are all normal,” Carlos reminds him. “If it’s a biohazard... it might be too late for all of us. Put on the protective gear anyway. We have it now; we might as well use it.”

“And if we lose contact?” Marianne, quietly.

“Find shelter and take it.” Carlos looks around at them levelly. When no one responds, he raises an eyebrow. “We went over this. Find shelter and _take it._ Give me your word. Eli?”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

“Phil?”

“Yes, all right.”

“Dave?”

“Fine.”

“Marianne?”

“Yes.”

Their grudging monosyllables seem to amuse John Peters. He shakes his head. “Scientific temperament. I’ll never understand it. Sensible people don’t need to be told to hide twice.”

“But you’re armed,” points out Phil. “Would you really drop that gun and hide under the boss’s car if he told you to?”

“No, of course not,” the farmer says patiently. “I’d take it with me. It works just fine from the ground.”

Eli’s shout of laughter at this proves infectious enough to set the rest of them off. Phil protests, “I don’t see what use bullets are going to be against a threat that appears to be gaseous in nature,” but he grins reluctantly back at them.

“You’d better come with me, Peters,” Carlos says. “If you won’t take my advice to hide right now, that is.”

“Nope.” John Peters sights along the rifle, pointing it at the wall of the barn. “Kid, you can take my truck. In the carport. I’ll ride along with your boss. I want to find out what’s going on. And if the Glow Cloud doesn’t like it, well... it shouldn’t have come onto my land.”

 

Predictably, John Peters refuses to wear the spare hazmat suit Carlos keeps in the trunk of the Chevy.

Also predictably, the sheer bulk of the Unscheduled Discovery of Corpse or Corpse-Like Object form, none of whose flapping, floating pages are stapled together, makes driving back into town, even at their present snail’s pace, an unexpected challenge.

If Carlos’s desire to smoke keeps increasing at this rate — assuming, of course, that he doesn’t die in the next twelve hours — it might actually prove stronger than his rooted dislike of the convenience store on Third and Elm, which appears to be patronized entirely by hooded figures with no visible faces below their depthless cowls. (One hooded figure in a crowd is bad enough; five or six of them looming nearby, while he pretends to be deciding between brands of beer or keychains or home exorcism kits for long enough to get them to leave, is nerve-racking.)

The only concession Carlos could wring out of his passenger was an agreement not to point the rifle out the open window of the car, at least not until there was something to shoot at. Muttering to himself about the necessity of constant vigilance, the farmer is dividing his time between peering up at the Glow Cloud through a set of high-powered binoculars, and furiously stamping check boxes on the parts of the form which remain within his reach, causing the dashboard to become gradually covered in smudges of red ink. Carlos refrains from comment.

It’s 2:03 by his watch. Undoubtedly conscious that the black boxes can only veil a limited range, the other members of the research team have been quiet — no phone calls or radioed messages. He’s not worried yet. He can see the measurements they’re taking come in on the screen of his own reader.

The shape of the huge paranormal energy field made by the Glow Cloud is organic and disturbing, a slowly turning, slowly growing spiral. It’s like viewing a hurricane from above, except that there’s no calm spot at the center.

And he was right. In the absence of wind, in the absence of any apparent outside agency, the Glow Cloud is moving. Heading for town.

Carlos derives no satisfaction from the confirmation of this particular theory.

 

Old Town Night Vale is on slightly higher ground than the newer developments, and the buildings, in their strange profusion of different styles, are smaller and closer together, but it doesn’t matter; the NVCR radio tower is easily visible from anywhere inside city limits.

Carlos turns toward it instinctively whenever he’s lost, a private magnetic north, pulsing out its steady message in winks of bright red. _Safe — safe — you’re safe here,_ a message no less comforting because he knows it to be a lie. In fact, he admits to himself inwardly, he wishes now that his route would take him closer to the station.

Or he would, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s just placed himself at the center of a massive threat.

It hasn’t occurred to him yet to be frightened. That, or maybe he’s been frightened for so long that he doesn’t notice it anymore. He isn’t sure.

If the sight of the two of them — driving at barely three miles an hour, Carlos masked and geared up as if he were back in Radon Canyon, John Peters leaning out the passenger-side window of the Chevy every few minutes with the binoculars — is at all odd, no one seems to care. With the exception of several people who actually appear too distracted by their errands to take notice of the alarming hue of the light, everyone they pass is gawking curiously up at the Glow Cloud.

It would be singularly useless to yell at them to run for shelter. Nobody who lives in this town ever seems to notice they’re in danger until either they’re under direct attack, or someone in authority informs them of it. And Carlos has no illusions about his own social status. To them, he’s still an outsider, and an eccentric one at that.

Cecil could warn them. Three words — and Carlos knows just how he’d enunciate them: _“Hide yourselves,_ listeners,” solemn and echoing — and Cecil could have them all inside, in basements or in bunkers. If only Cecil had not been ordered otherwise.

Carlos suddenly wants nothing more than just to hear Cecil’s voice. To hear Cecil say anything at all, even if it’s another embarrassing description of his hair. If he were alone now, he’d roll up the windows again and turn on the radio. He actually reaches for the dial, then lets his hand drop. To distract himself, “What time is it?”

John Peters pulls his head back in through the window. “Eh?”

“Do you have the time?”

“Oh. Yeah, of course. That mask muffles your voice. Gave me a start,” shuffling loose papers around until the dashboard clock is visible. “3:12. Time flies when you’re on the hunt.”

Carlos just nods.

“We’re still under the very center of the Cloud?”

“As close as we can get. That paved square there, next to that building — the one covered in — is that burlap? — anyway, that’s under the exact center, right now.”

“Yeah. Square of the Empty Pedestal, that’s what they used to call it.”

“Why?”

The farmer shrugs. “Dunno. There might’ve been a statue there once, but I don’t remember what it was a statue of. All I know is that it’s forbidden to stand, sit, or leave any unattended children or soft drink containers on top of the pedestal.”

“Oh. I see.” Carlos doesn’t, but he can’t think of any other response.

“Do you think we could get out of the car for a minute? Stretch our legs? It’s not moving very fast, and if we do end up having to run, we’re hamstrung if our legs cramp up from all this sitting.”

“Good point.” Carlos pulls close to the curb, leaves the engine on. They step out, past two women with high heels and trendy, tailored summer dresses, who take no notice of them at all.

John Peters brings the rifle out with him.

 

They walk slowly into the Square of the Empty Pedestal, the bone-chilling hum of the Glow Cloud shivering the ground beneath their feet.

A poster, just visible under the edge of the burlap shrouding the building across the square, announces the upcoming reopening of Night Vale’s Museum of Forbidden Technologies. At any other time, Carlos would be tempted to investigate.

John Peters paces around, on alert, like a soldier entering an enemy village that’s just a little too empty. Carlos stretches, shudders, then stands facing the street, waiting, until the farmer says, tensely, “Trouble.”

He pulls himself out of his reverie. Shakes off the unexplained thought that they’ve been standing here for hours. Looks at his watch. 3:29. Turns, to find John Peters backing under the awning of a nearby pawn shop, raising the rifle.

“Wait, Peters, what are you —”

 _“Down,”_ the farmer yells.

The shot splits open the day like rock, a hammer-on-chisel strike finding some faultless line of cleavage. In the drawn-out instant before Carlos’s shoulder hits the pavement, there is a stunned silence. The world holds its breath.

Then he’s breathless himself from the impact, rolling away from the spray of something sticky, his entire right side protesting at his sudden collision with the unforgiving ground. His ears are ringing, but he can still make out an uneven cascade of unexpected noise. A chorus of startled, high-pitched yelps from passersby. Following on the shot like an echo, the heavy _chack_ sound of a spent cartridge being ejected. And an irregular series of muffled thumps, as though someone on the roof of the burlap-veiled building were throwing down bags of something soft and heavy.

Then someone hauls him upright by one arm, and John Peters says in his ear, “Under _cover._ Goddamned scientists are all _useless,”_ and he’s stumbling dizzily to his feet, to lean against the wall under the awning, struggling to regain the breath he unceremoniously knocked out of his own lungs when he hit the ground.

“Sorry,” he gasps, but that’s all he can manage before being struck dumb with astonishment.

No one is throwing down missiles of any kind. It’s not an attack. It’s _precipitation._ The most bizarre form of precipitation Carlos has ever seen.

From somewhere inside, or above, the Glow Cloud’s coils — currently a blinding purple, a sky-bruise gone nuclear — the bodies of small animals are falling lifeless to the ground.

He watches the bloody impacts with wincing disbelief. Lizards. Cats. An armadillo. A snake — what’s left of its brightly banded pattern is quite beautiful; Dave could tell him what species it had been, if he were here. A raccoon. Birds, their broken, outspread wings seeming to mock him as he stands transfixed. Not to mention whatever it was that John Peters shot, now just a splatter of gleaming entrails.

Finally, rather helplessly, “Fucking _hell.”_

“You can say that again,” the farmer agrees morosely. Carlos looks at him. John Peters has returned his attention to his rifle. He must be a very good shot, to have hit his target like that, midair, no warning: the dead creatures are not large, nor are they falling slowly.

“Fucking hell,” he says again, more quietly. “What do we do now?”

“We make a run for your vehicle. I want the rest of my ammo. And my phone. Cecil needs to hear about this.”

 

“Don’t tell him I’m with you.”

Carlos forces out the words without looking up. They come out sounding unbelievably awkward. Without the gas mask hiding his face, he might not have been able to manage it at all.

“Why not? It’s news,” John Peters says. “Aren’t you figuring out a way to save the town?”

“I’m _trying,_ but fuck, I’ve never seen anything like this before. I don’t — I don’t have anything to _add,_ not yet. And you heard that Secret Police officer. He’s supposed to act like everything’s all right. I can’t — I just don’t want him to — if someone’s going to get in trouble for this, it had better be me.”

John Peters tilts his head, baffled. “Wait. Let me figure this out. You’d get yourself arrested in Cecil’s place? You’ve only been here, what, two weeks? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I _do,”_ Carlos almost snarls. “I didn’t just walk into this blindly. I _do_ know, and yes, I would. But don’t _tell_ him that. Don’t tell him I’m with you.” Softly, unable to help the appeal, “Please.”

John Peters stares at him. “You’re nuts,” he says after a moment. “But I guess that’s not surprising for an out-of-towner. Just don’t expect me to throw myself on the Council’s mercy for _you.”_

“I don’t. You can tell them I kidnapped you, if it comes to that. They might even believe it, if they don’t catch you actually holding that gun.”

“Carlos, have you ever _met_ the City Council?”

“No.”

John Peters pulls down the brim of his hat, his naturally grim expression becoming several shades grimmer. “Believe me when I tell you that you want to keep it that way.”

“Oh, I believe you. I don’t think it’ll be possible, but I believe you.”

“It could be possible. I mean, assuming you leave soon. I was a bit surprised you’re still here, to be honest.”

Carlos catches his breath on an unexpected laugh. “You thought this town would scare me away? Can’t imagine why.”

“I thought you were, you know. Just passing through.”

“No. I’m not leaving —”

They both jump involuntarily when another small body lands on the windshield, leaving a smear that neither of them really want to look at too closely. In the ensuing silence, the hum of the Cloud brims up against the windows of the silent car, rattling the rims of the tires, chattering an empty metal coffee mug against its holder.

Then Carlos repeats, enunciating deliberately this time so that the mask won’t muffle his words, “I’m not leaving Night Vale. I’m not going anywhere.”

John Peters shrugs — _your funeral_ — but Carlos sees a sincere, if grudging, respect in his eyes as he picks up his phone. Hits redial.

Then speaker.

 

“Hey, John Peters, how’s it going?” Cecil, as usual, sounds delighted to be receiving a phonecall. _If he were disarming a bomb,_ Carlos thinks, with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, _he’d probably waste the last ten seconds on the timer asking the bomb disposal experts about their day._

“Cecil, can you see the Glow Cloud from the station?”

“I don’t think so. Sometimes I can — here, let me try it — sometimes I can get a northwestern view out _this_ window, if I lean way over to the side — no, sorry, the water tower’s in the way again. Has it gotten very large?”

“If you call able to cover all of Old Town ‘very large,’ then yes. Yes, it has.”

“Goodness, that was fast. Where are you?”

“In the center of the whole mess — next to the museum and the old pawn shop.”

“Really?” Cecil’s voice is intrigued now, slightly drawling, pleased with some mental connection he’s made. Next door to smug, even. He uses that tone on air so very rarely that it catches Carlos unprepared, betrays him into a responsive shiver. “It’s directly over Old Town, then. That block is the center of the oldest remaining development; that’s where they officially broke ground in 1824. I wonder if the Cloud knows that? Or if it was just drawn by the magnificence of Night Vale’s longest-used, most storied buildings?”

John Peters sighs. “I can’t tell what it knows or doesn’t know, but it’s one hell of a nuisance, I can tell you.”

“What do you mean? There haven’t been any more deaths, have there?”

“Yes and no. I mean, it’s raining small animals all over everything.”

Cecil is taken aback. “Excuse me, John Peters, but did you just say it’s raining small animals?”

“Yes,” resigned.

“Er — _how_ small?”

“I don’t know, Cecil, I didn’t stop to _measure_ any of the damned things,” John Peters retorts with annoyance. “Not big, that’s all.”

“Well, what kind of animals are they? Are they recognizable?”

“Yeah, just normal animals. As far as I can tell, anyway. Lizards, armadillos, one or two crows... stuff like that.”

“Hmm. Has anyone called Animal Control?”

“No idea. It’s kind of hard to see through the windshield right now.”

“Would you describe this as a swarm, or an infestation? Have the animals attacked anyone, or delivered any messages?”

“I doubt it. They all seem to be dead already.”

“Oh? Now, _that_ is fascinating.”

“You wouldn’t think so if you were out here being bombarded by the corpses.”

“Well, I admit it certainly sounds like an _inconvenience_ ,” Cecil admits. “The interns will be glad I didn’t send them out to do any shopping today. And I really don’t envy whoever gets the job of cleaning it up. But it does seem fortunate that they’re dead already. I’d hate to have to deliver the news of another rabbit situation.”

“So would I,” agrees the farmer, with feeling. “What are you going to do, Cecil?”

“What I do best, John Peters. Leave it to me. If all the Glow Cloud can do is cause a temporary wrinkle in our day, it’ll move on quickly enough. And you’ll let me know, of course, if anything else happens?”

John Peters looks over at Carlos. At his nod, “Yes.”

“All right then. I’ve got the countdown; I’d better go.”

“Later, Cecil.” Flipping the phone closed, John Peters eyes Carlos with suspicion. “You’re not falling apart on me, are you?”

“No,” Carlos manages.

“Then what the hell is so funny?”

“I just —” and Carlos gestures around at the blood-spattered windows, dissolves into laughter. “I should have expected it by now. Your face, when he said ‘fascinating’ like that...”

John Peters shakes his head, but indulgently. “You’re nuts, all right,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Scientists. Stop cackling, already. It sounds really creepy from under that mask.”

 

“Shit, boss, I’ve called you like four times. What were you _doing?_ Are you all right?” Eli is genuinely indignant.

“We’re all right. We just... chose the wrong moment to stretch our legs. Got caught in the — in the — whatever you call it.”

“Yeah, this is really one for my Facebook page, huh? ‘Single and looking. Loves long walks on the beach with no actual coastline, and getting caught in the shower of dead animals,’ ” declaims Eli, distracted immediately from his righteous wrath. “You know, we’re going to have the _weirdest_ time trying to date in this town, aren’t we? Dinner, a movie, and a high-percentage chance of getting eaten by terrors we can’t even describe.”

“I’m going to assume you’re safe, Eli, since I hope you would know better than to complain about the lack of romance in your life instead of telling me you’re in trouble.”

“Boss, it breaks my heart, how little you understand me,” with a dramatic sigh. “I am, however, completely unscathed. We did a four-way call when we couldn’t reach you, to check in. Dave’s idea, credit where it’s due.”

“Everyone else all right?”

“Yeah. Well... mostly. There’s just... there _is_ this one thing.”

An unwelcome shiver traces its way down Carlos’s spine, like chill fingers. “What?”

“Well. We’re getting — slippage. _Time_ slippage. Like... I was in the slow lane, crawling along, right about the time the Glow Cloud changed to bright pink? I hate stick shifts. And then I was over on the shoulder and I couldn’t remember parking, and it seemed like I’d been there forever, you know? And the engine was off. But I looked at my phone, and it was only nine or ten minutes. That’s some serious _Twilight Zone_ crap. I thought I’d imagined it, but... it happened to the others, too.”

“All at the same time?”

“No. Phil says he lost exactly five minutes right when he got to the edge of town. Marianne blanked out on us halfway through the whole conversation. We had to tell her twice that you weren’t answering. And Dave apparently can’t recall part of what happened before we left, when we were all talking out in the field.”

“Why didn’t anyone report it?”

“It didn’t... it didn’t seem significant.”

Carlos blinks. “What do you mean, it didn’t seem significant?”

“Boss, they didn’t even _remember_ it until I said something. And I’ll bet my chores against your next test inspection that _you’ve_ lost time, too.”

“No, of course not, I — wait. Right before the — the rain — started. The time seemed to pass too fast. And I did have the feeling we’d been here for hours...”

“I knew it!” triumphantly. “How about the guy in the funny hat? Has he misplaced any minutes?”

“Peters?” Carlos turns to his companion. “Since the Cloud arrived, is there... any time you can’t account for?”

John Peters nods, slowly. “Seems like we got into town awful quickly. I just figured I was distracted, looking up at the damn thing. I should have asked Cecil.”

“Wait a minute. What did he just say, boss?” Eli’s teasing grin is audible. “Did I hear _Cecil?_ You called the _radio station_ before you called me? Man, if this keeps up, I’m gonna start feeling neglected. You know what happens when you neglect your henchmen? They get depressed and forget important stuff. Like chaining up the trash bins, or replacing the non-dairy creamer, or _keeping secrets_ about _sketchy nocturnal experiments_...”

“Eli, if you even think about blackmailing me, I’ll chain up the trash bins myself, with you inside,” growls Carlos. “This is _not_ the time.”

“Maybe you’ll be lucky, and I’ll forget the last few minutes in particular. Well, what orders, then? The Cloud’s still getting bigger, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Get as far away from the edge of it as you can without compromising the energy readings. I’m going to the lab. On foot, unfortunately — we can’t drive under these conditions. And remember what I said: if we lose contact —”

“— hide like pansies, yeah, I got it. I’ll hop back on the party line. Before I forget, Phil’s starting to croak about seniority again. Better call him first next time, or he’ll bore us all to death before we can figure out anything about the Glow Cloud. And then I’d have to come back and haunt you. You can’t tell me ghosts don’t exist in this town.”

“Right.”

“And... boss?”

“Yes?”

“Take care of yourself.”

 

They don’t make it to the lab.

The macabre downpour is worsening. They stick as close as they can to the buildings, but it doesn’t always help. By the time they’ve made it two blocks, they’re both thoroughly splashed with blood and Carlos feels as though he’s breathing iron-fouled water instead of clean oxygen. The downslope of Main Street is slippery and treacherous.

“Should’ve brought an umbrella,” Carlos says, raising his voice so that John Peters can hear him over the intensified humming of the Cloud.

The farmer nods, as if this were a simple observation instead of an attempt at humor. “Wish I’d thought of it before we left,” he calls back. “We can’t keep this up for long. Got to find better cover.”

“Where?”

“Follow me,” and John Peters turns off Main Street onto Flint Drive, runs south down the sidewalk with his rifle at the ready.

Carlos, startled, follows with more difficulty — this is a neighborhood he doesn’t know yet, and the unfamiliar street is a minefield of pedestrians with strollers or shopping bags, increasing piles of carrion, and two or three of the mysterious sinkholes that he’s certain move around town like mouths when no one is looking. He manages to run this obstacle course without losing John Peters’s lead or knocking into anything breakable. _Now_ they’re getting weird looks, but apart from the irony, it barely registers in his mind.

In what seems like too short a time, the drawbridge construction site looms ahead of them, and next to it the massive height of a shuttered warehouse. John Peters turns again, into the alleyway next to the warehouse, and boosts himself with speed in through a broken window.

Carlos, too beleaguered to care about the possible consequences of trespassing, follows. Breathes out a sigh of relief when his boots hit the concrete floor inside the building.

He taps his digital watch awake, looks around swiftly at graffitied walls and painted-out windows by its ghostly fluorescence, before glancing down at the time. 5:02.

“Damn,” he says, aloud. “I think we’ve lost more —”

Before he can finish the sentence, John Peters’s heavy, callused hand is clamped down around his wrist, but he doesn’t need the farmer’s warning hiss to tell him that they are in worse trouble inside the deserted warehouse than they had been outside.

Five enormous pairs of glowing eyes are watching them from the nearest pool of shadow, at an average height of about fifteen feet.

 

Each of the pairs of eyes is a different color. Blue, yellow, red, green, black. How they are able to _see_ the black pair of eyes at all, Carlos has no clue, but they are certainly visible — illuminated pools of tar that slowly come closer until the fantastic reptilian head from which they protrude like jewels is outlined clearly in the dimness.

John Peters, letting go of the scientist’s arm, backpedals away until he runs into the wall, the rifle slipping from his suddenly slack fingers, a low moan of fright escaping him.

Carlos can’t move — something prevents him. After a moment of slow and rusty cogitation, he realizes that this must be terror.

Closer. The head tilts, one eye half-closing and the other opening wider, in an oddly human expression of confusion. Then, in a voice of black iron, the beast speaks aloud.

“And just _what_ in the realms of the silent and hungering gods are _you_ supposed to be?”

Carlos gapes in shock. “I — I m-might ask you the s-same question,” he stammers, finally.

The dragon’s head withdraws slightly, but its black eyes remain fixed unnervingly on him. The other pairs of eyes are all in faint, undersea motion, four more long necks swaying slowly like charmed snakes. “I suppose that’s fair,” it admits. “Will you at least take off that mask? It’s giving me the creeps.”

Carlos boggles briefly at the idea of giving a five-headed dragon the creeps, especially one that looks like it weighs at least a ton and a half, but he obeys, fumbling at the straps of the gas mask with nerveless fingers. Drops mask, bag, and glasses in the process. Bends over, cautiously, to retrieve the mask, then the glasses. Slides the frame back up on his nose and shakes his head to clear it. Looks again.

Yes, it’s a dragon, all right.

“I hope you won’t be too offended,” says the dragon in its deep, gallows voice, “if I point out that those glasses really don’t suit you.”

“I, um... what?”

“Well, you’re good-looking. For a human. I mean, you _are_ a human, right? Mostly, at least? Your soul has a very strange _aspect._ I thought you were something quite different. You gave me a scare. But, getting back to my original point, you should really get contacts or something.”

“I tried that once, but it didn’t work,” admits Carlos. “I’m astigmatic, you see — I couldn’t get the same clarity of vision, even with the newer lenses. Besides, it wasn’t really for cosmetic reasons, I just thought it’d be easier to wear safety goggles if I — uh,” suddenly realizing all over again that he’s talking to an enormous dragon and hesitating in renewed fear, “I mean, not — not that your advice isn’t _appreciated.”_

He flicks his gaze over to John Peters, a quick, silent request for help, but the farmer has taken on the utterly lost expression of a man unable to navigate his most deep and trackless fear, and can only flap a hand, weakly: _get us out of here._

Carlos takes the hint. “We’re really sorry for disturbing you,” he tells the dragon. “We only wanted to get in out of the — the rain. We can go as soon as you like.”

“No, no, you’re going to stay right here,” and a tail like an enormous spiked whip lashes down, tearing at the concrete. “I can’t risk you telling the Secret Police where I am.”

Carlos runs a distracted hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face, eyes closed in desperation. Tries to think of a way out. _I just wanted an ordinary day,_ is the only thought that occurs to him. _I just wanted not to be struck by lightning, that’s all._

Then he lets the mask slip out of his grasp again and clatter to the floor.

Bends down and seizes John Peters’s hunting rifle instead. Pulls the gun toward him, flipping it up into the old, well-known and well-hated position, his balance still surprisingly fluid after a years-long lapse of practice. Centers the crosshairs on the Stygian orb of the dragon’s nearest eye.

Takes the safety off.

“I don’t know what good this’ll do,” he says, voice unstable as sweaty dynamite and right up close in his ears, hands somewhere light-years away and firm as bedrock, “but I’m not going to be eaten without giving you as much trouble as I can on the way down.”

The dragon looks startled, another very human expression. Then affronted. “I’m not going to _eat_ you,” it says. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Carlos narrows his eyes. “Then what _are_ you going to do with us?”

“I haven’t decided yet, but I’m certainly not going to eat you. Do you have any idea what the people in this town taste like? Ugh! The level of radium in the blood alone! Bad for my livers. And I don’t want to be unhappened, after all.”

“Un... happened?” Carlos exchanges confused glances with John Peters.

“Yeah. Erased from recorded history, all that Dark Box business. Or the Clean Slate Rewards Program, like they call it in Desert Bluffs. _You_ know. I really don’t want to bother pretending I don’t recognize you.”

 _Dark Box?_ Carlos is about to shake his head in incomprehension when he remembers Cecil saying the words. Cecil saying the words in one of his dreams. The Dark Box and something about the City Council.

Has the dragon mistaken him for some sort of messenger of the City Council? What do the City Council do to people who make false claims to be their messengers? Whatever it is, is it worse than being killed by a dragon?

John Peters is glaring urgently at him: _fake it._

He nods. Clears his throat. “Then make a deal with me.”

“Do put that silly toy down,” the dragon says sulkily. “You know you don’t need it. Not that a fight wouldn’t be fun — storm of the century, I bet — but that thing? I could fly out of here so fast you wouldn't even be able to pull the trigger. Really, I’m almost insulted.”

Carlos shrugs. Builds a slow, sidelong smile. Remains in his loose, careful shooter’s stance. “Look, are we going to negotiate, or not? You let me and my friend go, promise not to harm anyone here in town, and... spare maybe an hour to help me get rid of this glowing cloud... and I will promise we won’t tell the Secret Police anything at all about you.”

Doubtfully, “You’ll _promise?_ Cross your heart and hope to die without screaming?”

“Sure, why not?” Carlos isn’t positive he likes this previously unheard version of the unpleasant little playground oath, but keeping the rifle leveled is reminding him exactly how much he hates guns. “Pinky swear, if you want. I’ll even tell you something that might help you make good your escape. Are my terms acceptable?”

“Oh...” The dragon rattles its wings, deliberating. “All right, but you can’t expect me not to defend myself if the Secret Police come after me.”

“Yes, I can,” says Carlos. “They’re thugs, but they’re people. And if you’re that fast, you can outfly a helicopter. Distract them. Knock over a fence, set something nonessential on fire, get really close to the public library on your takeoff, whatever. You’re the one who didn’t want to bother pretending. Should I bother pretending I couldn’t find you, if you broke the agreement?”

The dragon gives a long, bassoon sigh. “Fine. I promise.”

He lowers the rifle. Puts the safety back on. John Peters, who has been watching this bizarre showdown, fascination and horror competing in his face, straightens up from the wall with a tiny measure of relief.

Carlos nods to him. “Let’s step outside for a moment. We’ll be right back — uh, I’m sorry. What’s your name?”

“Hiram McDaniels.”

Carlos, who had been expecting something mysterious and unpronounceable, is hard-pressed to keep a straight face. “Okay. Just give us a minute then, Hiram McDaniels, and we’ll be right back.” 

 

In the shadow of the construction site, Carlos helps a wild-eyed, almost hyperventilating John Peters sit down in the center of a rare patch of unbloodied gravel, under the lip of the half-completed bridge.

The street is deserted now, except for the sickening thumps — increasing in both size and frequency, he notes absently — of the falling animal corpses, and the Glow Cloud humming to itself. He discovers that the field of his anti-surveillance device damps the hungry sound, and calls down silent blessings on Eli’s inventive and paranoid head.

Once his companion is breathing more normally, “Okay, who the _fuck_ did I just impersonate?”

“I don’t fucking know, but you did a _really_ good job.”

“Shit. I was hoping for a name. A description. Anything. What’s the Dark Box, Peters? It has something to do with reeducation, doesn’t it?”

“Yes and no.” John Peters swallows. “The Dark Box is where you go when reeducation fails. When something needs to be... _erased.”_

“So people don’t come back from it?” Carlos’s jaw sets hard, but John Peters is shaking his head.

“No, people do come back. Being wiped out from history — like what — what the dragon was talking about — that’s only for whatever the City Council decides are capital crimes.”

“So now this Hiram McDaniels must think I work for the Council, then?” Arms folded, Carlos paces the zone of clear gravel.

“Not necessarily. You could be anyone, above... above a certain security clearance. But I don’t know what that is, because I don’t have _any_ security clearance. I thought — for the first few minutes I thought you were _serious,_ I thought maybe you were an agent. Who trained you to shoot? You sure as fuck didn’t learn that form at some hobbyist gun range.”

“That’s hardly relevant right now,” coldly, and then he winces at himself, at the tenderness where there should be scar tissue by now. Tries again. “Look, I am — who I told you I am, Peters. I run a scientific research team, and that’s all. Hell, I was the kid who always got stuffed in his locker in school. It ought to be impossible for anyone to mistake me for a government agent, of all things. I’m surprised _any_ of that worked.”

“Carlos, I... I’m sorry.” John Peters takes a deeper breath. “What I said about you.”

Carlos pauses in his pacing to regard the farmer skeptically. Then he smiles. “What, that I’m nuts? No need to apologize for that. It’s obviously true.”

John Peters shakes his head again, seriously. “No, I meant about scientists being useless. I’m sorry I said that. I stand by my statement that you’re nuts. That was the craziest thing I’ve ever seen anybody do. And I played football for Night Vale High the same year everyone got those experimental performance-enhancing brain parasites installed.”

“Well,” Carlos says thoughtfully, “stay tuned, I guess. Because I think I’m about to do something even crazier.”

 

“You’re going to do _what?”_ It’s almost a squawk, the most undignified sound Carlos has ever heard from Phil.

The rest of his team appear to be silenced by the extent of his recklessness. It even takes Eli a moment to recover.

“How are you going to get _up_ there, boss? Steal a helicopter?”

“Don’t say that, someone might think you’re serious. Of course I’m not going to steal a helicopter. The Town Hall spire ought to be high enough.”

“I knew this assignment would eventually drive us out of our minds,” says Marianne, “but I didn’t think you’d go first, boss.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” with the flicker of a smile. “It’s 6:17 now; have any of you lost more time?”

“We all noticed the same big gap, right after Eli talked to you,” Dave says. “We’re fuzzy on the details — I mean, we don’t all have the same details — but it ended about an hour and fifteen minutes ago. Approximately.”

“Yes. I thought so.” Carlos nods to himself. “The effect, whatever it is, it’s synchronizing. We have to assume it’s going to happen again. I’d better get started right now.”

“But you can’t really be serious about this?” Marianne pleads. “Getting so close to the Glow Cloud, just so we’ll have better evidence?”

“I have to do something. So many people... These readings are a confirmation, or don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” she admits. “Phil? It _is_ your area. Or, well, as close to it as any of this stuff gets.”

“I’d call it tentative confirmation.” Phil’s voice is steadying again. “According to the Theory of Cohesive Intention we proposed after the trash bin incident, the Glow Cloud hits all the highlights. It’s moving apparently under its own impetus, and the number of people near it directly correlate to the... er... _intensity_ of its actions. Even if we can’t prove it’s self-aware, it’s at least acting with purpose.”

“Don’t forget this infernal humming,” Dave puts in darkly. “I’m positive if we were able to translate it, we’d get some sort of intelligible message. I’ve been running it through everything I can think of.”

“And?”

“No soap, at least not yet. Although it did crash my machine.”

“That’s not evidence,” Eli says. “Your machine crashes if someone looks at it funny.”

“Just because you don’t like the operating system —”

“Don’t start that again. I’m calling a moratorium on the subject until further notice,” Carlos interrupts. “Assuming I don’t die, that is.”

“Oh, that’s super reassuring, I won’t even be able to talk sense at your funeral,” Eli grumps. “And really. You tell _us_ to hide while _you_ go off and do this crazy thing by yourself —”

“He’s got a point, you know, it’s not fair to —”

“Am I your team leader,” inquires Carlos, acidly, “or am I just the guy who gets stuck paying for all the pizza and lab equipment? I warned you this would be dangerous, and that you might have to trust me. Well, do you?”

Four distinct and rather sulky silences, broken up by faint bands of static.

Then Dave sighs. “Yeah, boss, we trust you,” he says. “We’re just a little stunned at how much you seem to have... foreseen.”

Carlos flexes his injured fingers, still bandaged under the battered glove of the hazmat suit. “Yeah. Me too,” he says.

 

John Peters, already made profoundly uneasy by Carlos’s plan, is further dismayed by the news that the Glow Cloud has engulfed the whole of Night Vale. Having managed to get back to his feet, he promptly sits down again, face still pale. “Shit.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I was bitten by a snake once, under the house... I was just a kid, maybe five or six. Never been able to stand the things. I guess I panicked. It’s passing off,” holding up a warding hand as Carlos moves to help him up. “Just give me a minute. I think maybe it’ll be better if you go back, and I call Cecil from here.”

Bluntly, “Why?”

“Because...” John Peters blinks. His eyes are very blue. The Glow Cloud’s light is a luminous pearl color right now, almost enough to give a realistic cast to the shadows around them. “Damn it, I’m already starting to forget you’re not from here. You don’t know Cecil. Look, he’s — _observant._ If I called him while standing next to a fucking five-headed snake-necked abomination, he’d _notice._ Do you listen to his show?”

“Yes,” Carlos admits, grinding the syllable down softly, as if confessing to a secret vice. “I... listen to his show.”

“Don’t you ever wonder how he’s able to give details about things he never physically sees? He doesn’t just make things up. He tells the _truth.”_

“You’re telling me he’s psychic?”

John Peters looks exasperated. “No, no, he doesn’t waste people’s time with crystals and incense and all that fancy paraphernalia. He just _knows_ things. He’s... Cecil.”

“Would he,” with an unexpected edge in his voice again, “would he really betray us by reporting it?”

 _“Betray_ us?” The farmer’s expression of surprise is almost comical. “No, of course he wouldn’t! But we don’t have time to _explain_ it to him, and besides, if he found out what you’re about to do, he’d leave the studio to try and stop you. And you won’t repeat this, Carlos, but his contract’s coming up for renegotiation in a few weeks, and he’s already on Management’s shitlist. He’s been my friend for years. Damned if I’ll let him get himself into something ugly like breach of contract. That show’s his life. Sometimes I think he doesn’t take the risks seriously.”

Now it’s Carlos’s turn to drop his eyes, put up a hand as if he can ward away his own sudden, scalding embarrassment. How could he just have assumed like that? “No, of course... I understand...”

“I hope you do,” says John Peters. He hesitates, then adds roughly, “He... he thinks the world of you. It’s not what I was raised to... Well. It’s not my _business._ What he thinks. What you think. But it isn’t just me who cares about him. Cecil is important to a lot of us, here in town.” He pulls down the brim of his hat in that characteristic gesture. Stands up, still shaky, but with his face set in its usual stoic lines again. “So just — don’t get yourself killed, Carlos the Crazy Scientist. Don’t get yourself killed.”

 

The falling animal corpses are getting bigger.

Coyotes. Horses. Something that might have been an alligator, and where the fuck did that come from, in a desert?

The impacts are not quite random anymore: they follow in his wake as he runs, make the ground shake ahead of him as he changes direction. The thought crosses his mind that the Glow Cloud might actually be aiming for him, and he realizes that his lip has curled back in a smile that’s more like a snarl.

_That’s right, come get me._

And then for a moment Night Vale plays one of its haunting memory tricks on him, his past stuttering in strung-out moments between the frames of his present, a film reel spliced flawlessly into the beating of his heart.

He’s sixteen and fearless, the only day he was ever completely fearless, dodging through some L.A. alleyway with his glasses broken, a stolen pack of cigarettes in his pocket and a ravening pack of bullies on his heels. But never too close on his heels, because he has for some vital instant outrun his own shadow. Left his fears behind.

The always-broken kitchen window. His mother’s sobs. The cold voice of Julio, measuring out precise, condemning sentences: _Don’t let me see you again until you’ve gotten your hair cut,_ ¿entiendes? _Put down that book and come out here, right now._ Never _take your eyes off the target like that again._ He’s left them all in the dust, along with the shouts of “Run, nerd!” and “Queer!” falling flat to the pavement behind him.

His fears are all falling lifeless from the sky. His fears are the howls of wild animals, furious that he has forgotten them.

When those shutter-fast instants of demanding memory have released him, and he’s swinging himself back in through the window of the empty warehouse to confront Hiram McDaniels again, no longer sixteen and fearless but thirty-two and desperate as hell, he knows it with a solid certainty: this could be his death.

The knowledge itself howls its outrage at being so easily dismissed.

 

He’s greeted by a strange sight: all five heads turned in toward each other, like the closed petals of a bizarre flower. The dragon has been having a conversation with itself. _Himself,_ Carlos corrects mentally.

He clears his throat. “Hello?”

“Oh good, you’re back." The red head, which has apparently designated itself as speaker for the collective. The dragon’s voice, curiously, sounds exactly the same. “What happened to your henchman? He didn’t die out there, did he?”

“He’s not exactly my — I mean, no, of course he didn’t die. He had something important to attend to.”

McDaniels makes a strange, sidelong motion that Carlos thinks must be the equivalent of a shrug. “Oh well, he really wasn’t much of a conversationalist. So, down to business, then? I think you should go first. I’ve shown quite a lot of trust, staying here.”

“Go first?”

“Yes. You said you would tell me something that would help me escape.” Raw eagerness.

“Right. I did. Have you lost any time today?”

The dragon scoffs. “Nonsense. No time has been cancelled. I’d notice. It leaves... seams... in the astral plane, like some idiot tried to sew up a rip in their pants with lava.”

Carlos blinks. Decides against trying to deconstruct this analogy. “I see. Well, the Glow Cloud is causing everyone — us humans, that is, I guess — to lose time, in — in increments that are getting closer and closer together. The last one ended at about 5:00. It’s 6:49 now. So, if all goes well, you can make your escape while people are... not paying attention.”

“Aha,” and when McDaniels breathes out, a tongue of blue-white flame licks the stale air. “Perfect. And if I help you chase off the cloud, that won’t spoil this clever little plan?”

“I’m hoping it might take a while to wear off.”

“What if you yourself are affected?”

Carlos turns his palms out, shrugs. “Then we might all die,” calmly. “But it won’t be your fault, so no one will come after you.”

McDaniels considers this for a moment, the brooding facets of his eyes glinting like huge, sullen gemstones. “Okay. Fair enough. What do we do?”

 

They manage it with the mountain-climbing ropes Carlos has been carrying in his messenger bag since the previous day’s trip to Radon Canyon. The result is efficient, but not remotely comfortable; he’s going to have abrasions in some really inconvenient places.

Hiram McDaniels scutters sinuously around the inside of the warehouse, up a wall and across the ceiling, testing the makeshift webbing. He drops and spins in midair to land on his feet again, flaps his wings, shakes all over like a dog shedding water. Carlos can’t completely suppress the noises of fright which keep escaping his throat, but the web holds.

One head — the purple one — comes curling back to fix him with an unblinking, reptilian stare as the dragon continues his acrobatics. “You do this sort of thing often?”

“No,” still gasping on half-swallowed whimpers. “Not really.”

“We’re not going to be able to hear each other over the wind. Not that far up, not at the speed we’ll need, and especially not with you wearing that creepy mask again. Better tell me now if you’ve got anything else up your sleeve.”

“I don’t think so... but,” Carlos gives in to curiosity, “what is it, exactly, that you’re wanted for?”

Airily, darting around crumbling concrete pillars in the darkness like an immense dragonfly, “Insurance fraud, identity theft, a few related misdemeanors. Oh yeah, and I did set a Police vehicle on fire when they pulled me over.”

“Pulled you over?” Carlos repeats. “You were driving? But — but how did you fit into the car?”

 _“Anyone_ can fit into a car.” Hiram McDaniels rolls his eyes — the yellow pair, this time. “It’s not _hard._ I know I probably shouldn’t have taken it, but it was such a nice car. Vintage Caddy. Lovingly maintained. Man, you should have seen it. Now what’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Just motion sickness.” Carlos bites his lip under the mask, rather viciously. If he can’t control his reprehensible sense of humor, he’ll blow his cover. “Whose identity did you steal?”

“Oh, just some guy.” McDaniels turns his body into a dizzying spiral, black iron voice resonating through his hide as calmly as if they were both standing still. “Name of Frank Chen, apparently, but his ID turned out to be fake. What a stupid coincidence, right? Someone drops dead of a heart attack right next to you in a deserted roadside diner, you see your chance, and then he turns out to be carrying a phony ID? What kind of ‘land of opportunity’ do you call that?”

“I, uh, never thought of it that way.” Carlos is completely unable to picture the Secret Policemen accepting any ID at all from a five-headed dragon, but he has to admit that the members of the force he’s met so far definitely don’t have all their marbles. Then, abruptly connecting the dots, _“Oh. That_ explains the body in the cornfield.”

“You found it already? Damn. I thought nobody would ask inconvenient questions if I just left it. Dead bodies turn up around here all the time.”

“I know,” Carlos says, reassuringly, biting his lip again. “It was only a coincidence, really.”

“Oh? Oh, well, good.” The dragon coils back on himself, briefly making a shape like the sign for infinity in the air. “I thought I was losing my touch.”

 

Night Vale from above, buildings limned by precisely cast shadows, gives Carlos a strange, familiar, possessive ache.

It’s like standing in front of the wall, back in his New York apartment, and looking at the array of his notes. The newspaper photos and the highlighted printouts, the sketches and the graphs, the carefully ruled lines connecting rumor and supposition, tying together his theory of paranormal convergence. A map. A shrine. A Voice whispering in his ear.

_Come to me, Carlos, I need you._

It’s like seeing a photograph of something he’s only heard described. Like concrete evidence of a dream. Beautiful, unexpected, eerie in the wash of the changing light.

It’s _his,_ and he’s sickened, infuriated, by the carrion spread over it, the vast charnel altar on the roofs and in the streets.

He clings to the rope webbing and waits. Turns his eyes up to find the Glow Cloud a poison green again, a roiling witch’s brew. Takes a deep breath. Puts his hand gently against the dragon’s scaly hide, next to their agreed-upon signal rope. When the time comes, he’ll tug on it. Now, he keeps his fingers away, as if it were the trigger of a gun.

He’s wondering exactly how long it’ll take to get the Glow Cloud’s attention, when what he’s been waiting for finally happens. He can taste iron. Feel the charge in the air.

Hiram McDaniels wheels and banks sharply away from their original course, and from above them skeletal electric fingers lance down.

Powerline towers out at the edge of the scrublands are wreathed in St. Elmo’s fire. Carried upside down as the dragon rolls away from the strike, Carlos sees every electric light in the buildings below flicker in unison. The frantic loudspeaker announcements from the junction of Old Town Road and Main, unintelligible at this distance, falter. Go silent. Resume, falling into an ominous rhythm.

_all..._

_hail..._

“What?” he chokes out. “What’s happening?” and the wind of their passage rips the words from his mouth.

_all..._

Above them the Cloud cycles again, back to the ominous scarlet color he first saw, and the thunder rolls in, deafening.

_hail..._

Deafening, and yet he can still hear the chanting.

_all..._

_hail..._

“How the _fuck_ are you doing this?” he yells, uselessly.

_all hail..._

_all hail..._

The rain of animal corpses has completely stopped; there are no falling shapes anymore against that bleeding light.

_all hail the glow cloud..._

Carlos loses his breath in fear as Hiram McDaniels coils and goes into a sharp dive, perhaps trying to make his movements as unpredictable as possible.

_ALL HAIL..._

_ALL HAIL..._

More lightning dances fitfully above them, arcing between the Cloud’s ghostly fingers, but no thunder follows. Carlos thinks that his ears must have been bludgeoned into uselessness, but if that were so _ _—__

_ALL HAIL THE GLOW CLOUD..._

— would he still be able to hear the chanting?

YOU HEAR IT BECAUSE YOU ARE AWARE.

His heart jumps into his throat; he moans in terror. _I must be going mad._

YOU ARE NOT MAD. YOU ARE GIFTED. YOUR EARS ARE OPEN. YOU WILL BE A MOST USEFUL SLAVE.

 _I am nobody’s slave,_ the thought a whiplash reaction, trembling against his bonds as the dragon arrows upward again.

YOU WILL WORSHIP ME. ALL WILL WORSHIP ME.

 _I will not!_ Carlos can’t really be having a telepathic conversation with a glowing collection of particulate matter — it’s so completely impossible that it’s ridiculous — but he’s too furious to care. _Get away from this place! Leave these people alone! I will worship nothing!_

I DOUBT THAT. LISTEN, SLAVE OF THE OPEN EARS, LISTEN.

The chanting intensifies, separates, until Carlos can hear individual voices.

_ALL HAIL..._

_ALL HAIL..._

Children. Women. An old man, mumbling with food in his mouth.

_ALL HAIL THE GLOW CLOUD..._

John Peters, talking into the dead screen of his phone under the half-built drawbridge. Dave, Marianne, Phil, in unison as if reciting back the results of a difficult test. Eli, all the energy and fire drained from his words, repeating the chant like a zombie.

Finally, shattering him, Cecil.

Cecil leaning into the microphone like a lover or a fanatic, the Voice radiating out over Night Vale. Cecil, the essential spark gone from his tongue, his eyes empty, declaiming _ALL HAIL_ with a preacher’s stone-calm passion, _ALL HAIL_ like his last words, _ALL HAIL THE GLOW CLOUD._

Carlos squeezes his eyes shut. Wishes like hell that he could wake up. Coughs on something too jagged to be a sob.

Says aloud, as loudly as he can, just for the sake of pure defiance, “All... but... _one,”_ and then he pulls the rope.

 

The dragon had not been boasting about how fast he can fly. The world becomes a mad blur, stitched with the unmistakable migraine flashes of more lightning.

Carlos can’t see, can’t hear, can concentrate only on breathing.

In.

Any moment now.

Out.

In.

And _out,_  as they stop and bank again as if to avoid an invisible force field and every detail becomes painfully clear and Hiram McDaniels opens his five spiked jaws to lance brilliant dragonfire right into the Cloud’s heart.

  

Blackness.

  

A familiar voice, calling him.

Familiar, but not _the_ Voice.

He still feels caught in a web. Dizzy. Tries to move his hand, to catch the rope, so he won’t fall. Somewhere, miles away, his fingers twitch.

“Boss?” Eli. Eli’s voice. No longer chanting. This relieves him so much that he tries again to reach out. Makes a loose fist, then shifts. He’s lying on his back.

“Eli? ...I can’t... see anything.”

“That’s because your eyes are closed, boss.”

“Oh.” Carlos opens them, eyelids heavy as counterweights. Blinks. His vision smears back in. Sunlight. Sane, normal late-afternoon sunlight. The shadow of John Peters’s rusty old pickup truck, lying over him like a cool blanket. “How... did I get here?”

“Fucked if I know. You were right, it happened again. We all blacked out.” Eli holds up his cell phone. “It’s 8:38. He’s awake, guys, he’s all right!”

Carlos smiles at the muffled cheer from the speaker phone. His team members are exclaiming, laughing in relief, talking over each other, until Eli puts the phone back to his ear. “We’re coming back into town, just as soon as he can stand up. Yeah.”

Pushing himself up gingerly on one elbow, Carlos examines himself for injuries. The gas mask is gone and the integrity of his hazmat suit is beyond repair, but he doesn’t find anything more serious than bruises.

He rolls half over to find that his bag has been deposited in a clump of scrub brush nearby. No sign of the ropes that had held him onto the dragon’s back; maybe Hiram McDaniels had been unable to do more than free him, let him slide to the ground. That, or it would have looked too suspicious to leave them there.

“Your head hurt, boss?” Eli, concerned.

“No, not at all,” truthfully. Then, “What’s this road flare doing here?”

“Oh, that was my idea. I found it in the glove compartment. I heard thunder, and — and I had a bad feeling, everything was dark, so I got it out.”

“Marking your position,” Carlos says, dusting sand off of himself as he gets to his feet, “is the _opposite_ of hiding, Eli.”

Eli grins widely. “I think he’s going to be okay!” to the others, jubilant. “He’s lecturing me already!”

 

The drive back into town is less of a hassle than they expect it to be.

The wreckage and the piles of animal corpses are already being cleared from the Route 800 exit, and people are only just starting to emerge again from whatever shelter they took at the last minute.

There’s a small crowd milling about on Flint Drive, around the White Sands Ice Cream Shop, where the corpse of what appears to be a lion, mane matted with blood, has impaled itself on the metal sign in the shape of an ice cream cone on the roof.

Eli winces at this. “Shit, they all got bigger,” he says. “It’s a miracle you didn’t die.”

“Understatement of the day,” Carlos replies, leaning out the window.

Here is the inevitable cordon: a dark blue Secret Police cruiser parked half-in and half-out of the strip mall’s parking lot, nosing out into the oncoming lane in an unmistakable signal for them to stop.

“Hey, look, it’s our friends from the farm,” and Eli throws on the parking brake and is out the driver’s side door before Carlos can stop him.

He’s right. Officer Ben and Officer Jonas, still wearing their helmets, but with the blood-splashed visors up, move to meet them like coyotes on the prowl, followed by at least half the crowd. Damn.

Carlos, who has borrowed Eli’s labcoat (they’re all the same size anyway) to partially conceal the ripped mess of the suit, has entirely given up on trying to look like he hasn’t been dragged through the dog park backwards. Beyond pulling off his ruined gloves and transferring his phone from an inner pouch of his rescued messenger bag to the pocket of the labcoat, he can’t do much. His face is scratched up, one bow of his glasses bent just enough to look rakish, and from the state of his hair, he might as well have _actually_ been struck by lightning.

He sighs. Drags himself up and out of the truck.

“Did you scientists leave town?” is Officer Ben’s first sharp, suspicious question.

Carlos fields it before Eli can speak. “No, we only went out to the city limits to check our survey markers.”

“Isn’t that John Peters’s vehicle?”

“Yeah. He was with us, but he wanted to stay in town to call — to report events to the radio station. He was under cover at the bridge construction site when we left him. Eli, you’d better get hold of him and make sure he’s okay.”

“Yeah, on it,” and the intern pulls the door of the truck closed after himself, starts to rummage around inside for his phone.

“Why aren’t you driving your own car, that white one?” Officer Ben is still frowning, but Officer Jonas interrupts him.

“Don’t be silly, he can’t very well drive it now that it’s been flattened.”

“It has?” Carlos asks, startled.

“Oh yes,” puts in one of the onlookers. “Saw it myself. Three horses and an ostrich are quite enough to total one car. I’d say it’s a dead loss.”

Officer Ben is opening his mouth again — perhaps to berate the bystander for interrupting, perhaps to demand why Carlos didn’t have the paperwork-saving decency to get flattened along with the car — when he is forestalled by another voice.

A Voice, in fact, amused and sympathetic.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” and then Cecil’s beside them, pale, shadows under his eyes, but _there_ , himself, his own vital personality present in every syllable. Cecil.

Something that’s been chained up tightly inside Carlos’s chest abruptly lets go. He almost gasps on the relief of it. Closes his eyes, opens them again, and the radio host is still there. One sardonic eyebrow raised at the Secret Policemen. Very much in command of himself, despite the slight disarray of his blond hair and the incidental bloodstains on his normally immaculate white collared shirt.

“I hear that seven other cars, two people, and eighteen trucks were also flattened,” he continues. “That really seems like a disproportionate number of trucks, when you think about it. I wasn’t aware that such a high percentage of our population owned trucks. Perhaps the Glow Cloud targeted them specifically. What do you think, Officer Ben?”

The Secret Policeman all but sputters. “Damn it, Cecil Palmer, what are you doing here? I didn’t call a fucking press conference!”

Cecil smiles, _that_ smile, brown eyes glinting with private devilry. “Of course you didn’t. And it’s just as well, considering. I’m only on break, but I thought I’d come down here to see if there was anything I could discover about this strange, town-wide lapse in memory before I go back on air. Have you spoken to anyone who does remember what happened this afternoon?”

“Oh, just go back to the station and play back your tapes,” snaps Officer Ben.

“That was the first thing I tried. They’re blank.”

“Then you’d best be advised to forget it; they’ve probably been censored.”

Cecil shakes his head, firmly, thoughtfully. “No. They all smell distinctly of vanilla. It did occur to me that it might be the work of a vague, yet menacing, government agency, but they aren’t in the habit of leaving behind any evidence at all. As for the City Council, their erasures tend to leave behind the scent of burning flesh instead, which isn’t nearly as pleasant.”

 _“We_ could have done it.”

“You could have, of course,” agrees Cecil, serenely, “but you didn’t.” He offers a handshake to Officer Ben, plainly dismissing him. “Good luck at headquarters. And don’t worry... I won’t quote you.”

The Secret Policeman ignores the reporter’s outstretched hand. Stalks back to the cruiser without a word, beckoning his partner to follow. As they leave, the crowd begins breaking up into lazy currents again.

With a soft chuckle, “How impolite,” and Cecil turns to Carlos instead. “I’m sorry to hear about your car.”

“I, um, it’s nothing.” Shit. _Smooth,_ he thinks savagely. _Really calm and detached._

“If you say so, Carlos,” and Cecil’s voice is warm, friendly, trusting. It’s not at all the same excited voice he uses on air, when he doesn’t know Carlos is listening. He’s visibly keeping a guard on himself. But the result is almost more intimate, more devastating; Cecil saying his name _to_ him, as if they’re the only two people here, and it hits him all over again, fear and awe so closely mingled they might be inseparable on a molecular level.

Carlos can only be glad that Cecil is, as he was before, being completely respectful. Any other tone — sly, caressing, mischievous, even concerned — would have made it impossible not to betray his confusion. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Cecil’s eyes sharpen as he takes in Carlos’s disheveled appearance, but he’s silent for a moment too. Then he gives a firm little nod, holding Carlos’s gaze. “You must be busy,” he says. “It’s been an — eventful day. Listen, I, um, I don’t mean to _presume,_ but... just in case it’s helpful to you...”

“What?” Carefully monosyllabic.

“I never gave you my number, the day you got here. I thought,” somewhat breathless now, “um, you don't have to call for _personal_ reasons. You could call me if you needed... help contacting someone, or information about the history of Night Vale, or, or assistance with your research — I mean, not that I — well, here,” and he moves his hand quickly, conjuring a small, folded slip of paper out of his sleeve, an unexpected and charming piece of prestidigitation.

Carlos takes it before he realizes what he’s doing. Murmurs, “Thank you,” as their fingers touch.

“Of course,” Cecil says. He smiles again, nods politely to Eli, who has emerged from the truck again, and then turns and threads his way through the dissipating crowd, in the direction of the station.

“What was that about?” Eli asks, curious.

“Nothing,” Carlos hears himself reply, as if from a distance. He turns around, hoping his expression looks normal enough to satisfy the intern. “Let’s get going. The road’s clear now.”

“Okay," but Eli adds sweetly, “You’re _such_ a bad liar, boss,” as they climb back into the truck.

 

By 9:42, there’s a team working on Third Street outside the lab, mostly composed of more Secret Policemen and municipal workers with brown Animal Control uniforms, harassed expressions, and pitchforks, trying to clean up the mess left behind by the Glow Cloud.

Carlos, who has showered, changed thankfully into a clean T-shirt and jeans, and submitted to having his pupils checked and his various scrapes and bruises prodded several times over by an anxious Marianne, steps outside into the welcome twilight to meet John Peters. They exchange a look of mutual relief and mutual secrets, and then Carlos holds out his newly scrubbed hand to shake the farmer’s still-grimy one.

“Thank you,” Carlos says.

Gruffly, “Welcome. At least your boy didn’t dent old Bessie here too badly,” patting the hood of the truck. “I’m going home. Early night. Best not speak about what happened today.”

“There’s no need. You have my number now, right?”

“Yeah. Sorry about your car.”

“It was rather predictable,” and Carlos’s mouth twitches. “I’m just glad we got out of it before it got flattened. The only real problem will be convincing Eli not to get us in trouble by requesting a tank as a replacement.”

John Peters gives his small smile. “You’re all right, Carlos,” he says, opening the passenger-side door to deposit his rifle inside the truck. Looks around at an imperative honk from the street.

Carlos follows his gaze to see Mr. Jeremiah Bale, leaning out of a red sports car, business suit miraculously untouched. He wonders if the building inspector has spent the entire day indoors, or if he’s actually had his outfit dry-cleaned.

“Sunset should be any minute now,” Bale says, pompous, reveling in his apparent victory, “and all of this Glow Cloud business has really put us behind schedule. Well? Do I drive to City Hall to request an eviction notice, or will you provide me with the proper evidence of your sacrifices?”

Carlos grins. Waves a hand at the remaining carnage scattered around the loading zone. “What, is this not enough evidence for you?”

Bale’s brows snap together. “ _These_ specimens obviously fell from the sky. _You_ didn’t sacrifice them.”

“Oh, really?” mildly. “And how do you intend to prove that? Where were you at 7:30 this evening, Mr. Bale? Can you remember?”

The Building and Code inspector glares from John Peters’s stolid countenance to Carlos’s triumphant one, and huffs a sigh of defeat. Steps on the gas and speeds irritably off toward Old Musk Road, trailed by the speculative glances of several of the Secret Policemen nearby.

Carlos meets John Peters’s eyes again and then they’re suddenly both laughing, doubled over, almost in tears between catharsis and relief.

When it passes, “Yeah, I guess I am all right,” and he actually feels for a moment like he might be telling the truth.

Touches the paper in his pocket, to make sure it's still there.

 

He likes the roof of the lab because it’s flat and higher than the surrounding buildings. It brings the stars close. The rising light from the signs at Big Rico’s and the streetlamps on Third is bright enough to see by, but not bright enough to diminish the glory of the night sky.

By coincidence (or miracle), there’s not so much as a stray speck of blood up here, nothing except blowing sand and the dry leavings of birds. The Glow Cloud is fully gone now, gone east past Radon Canyon and away. It’s not even visible in the distance anymore.

It’s 10:32. Faintly, he can hear the voices of his colleagues below him, still in the middle of an increasingly sleepy argument about the supposed boundaries of paranormal intelligence. He sits down on the south edge of the roof, looking out over their tiny, fenced-in backyard, over the charcoal line of the little arroyo nearby, edged with scrub brush like tattered gray lace, and in the distance the Sand Wastes by moonlight.

He turns on the black box and sets it down beside him. Does the now-routine check for helicopters or watchers perched on other roofs. Nothing, unless you count the possibility of telepathy, and in that case he’s screwed anyway. This is as safe as he’s going to get anywhere, up here on the roof.

Cecil’s note isn’t the plain grocery-slip paper they type temporary passes on at the radio station. It isn’t standard printer paper, or even blue-lined paper from a spiral-bound notebook. This is thick, creamy, soft paper, and two edges of it have been torn by hand and with infinite care. It makes a pleasant crisp sound as he unfolds it.

The writing is in ink.

Ten numbers. A local area code. The name, _Cecil Palmer,_ like an artist’s signature. The handwriting is fluid calligraphy, the Voice made visible, so entirely unmistakable that it makes his heart ache. Carlos stares at it, his pulse knocking rapidly at the inside of his wrist as if demanding frantically to be let out.

Cecil could have typed this. Given him the number aloud. Sent an email to the lab. Even asked for his own number first and then texted him. But this? To write it down with a pen, and risk arrest and reeducation? This isn’t just a note, it’s a gesture of trust between conspirators. It’s illegal. Impossible. Forbidden for him to possess.

And fucking _beautiful._

This is it. He’s gone, head over heels, a drowning man with no rope to grasp for, the known world shifting invisibly beneath him like colliding tectonic plates. This is the moment when self-deception has become useless; now he has to admit it, even if only to himself.

To mark the moment, to cement his willing collusion, he fishes out his own phone, programs in the number. The screen blinks at him, waiting for him to set contact preferences, but he puts it aside and runs his fingers lightly over the paper, tracing the route of Cecil’s pen.

He’ll never call the number. Unthinkable, to put Cecil in so much danger. But it feels good to touch it and imagine Cecil’s fingers folding it, hiding it. To imagine Cecil thinking about him.

Maybe he’ll stay up on the roof for a while, just watch the stars. The view is amazing, after all.

In the desert you can see forever. In the desert you can see as far as the curvature of the earth.

Even if only in your dreams.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Edited after the episode _Cassette,_ to make the mentions of Cecil's last name properly canon. (Hey, if even the actor didn't always know what the character's last name was, hopefully we Listeners will be forgiven, right?)
> 
> The Latin motto of the Sheriff's Secret Police, originally taken from [this design for their official crest](http://hp-goodwin.tumblr.com/post/59028678520/seems-the-sheriffs-secret-police-of-night-vale), didn't make sense when translated. I don't read Latin — not even Weird Latin or Modified Latin — so all I know is that Google Translate is not to be trusted. The correct rendering ("say nothing and drink to forget") was given to me by [Redmage2](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Redmage2).
> 
> As for Carlos's inconveniently sentient iPad, [it was undoubtedly free](https://twitter.com/search?q=%23NIGHTOFTHEFREEIPAD&src=hash).


End file.
